A plane struggled desperately in its descent through the Arctic's hazy skies, its engines screaming in protest against the subzero wind. Sergeant Eric Dunn tightened his grip on the seatbelts, knuckles turning white beneath his gloves. He was already starting to lose the feeling in his hands as they maintained their grip involuntarily.
He despised flying, especially in these rust-bucket military transports that felt more like airborne coffins than aircraft. These were the specialty of the military.
The interior of the flying coffin was a claustrophobic mess of exposed wiring, chipped paint, and rattling panels that suggested the plane had seen more service than it should have.
"Would this damn flight even end?" he muttered.
It had been hours, magnified by his deep hate for flights and multiplied by the scenery inside the flying coffin. This trip felt like a lifetime.
The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom, distorted by static and bad infrastructure.
"Ten minutes to touchdown. Strap in, folks. It's gonna be a bumpy ride." The voice rang through the faulty wiring system.
Eric exhaled through his nose, forcing himself to ignore the nerves clawing at his gut. He glanced out the frost-rimmed window, catching a faint reflection of his face—a long scar on his wide, strong jawline. His bright brown eyes stared back, dull with exhaustion.
He sighed inwardly and decided to ignore how much he'd changed at the age of 32, how much he'd been through up until that moment. It wasn't the worst he'd seen so far… at least.
He looked down, where the endless expanse of ice and snow stretched to the horizon, broken only by jagged ridges of occasional black rocks. It was an alien landscape—barren and lifeless—a place where nature had long since decided no one belonged. The thought of spending six months here gnawed at him, but orders were orders.
The flying coffin descended farther, dropping several feet in an instant. Eric's stomach twisted. He squeezed his eyes shut and focused on the mission briefing he'd received a week ago.
Outpost Omega: a classified research facility deep in the Arctic, home to a skeleton crew of twelve. His job was simple—maintain security, oversee patrols, and keep the scientist(s) alive. Easy enough. Or so command had assured him.
Though the part regarding keeping the scientists alive was rather… questionable.
He decided to ignore it the same way he ignored overseeing patrols in the middle of no man's land.
Military life lacked that aspect… not for a sergeant at least.
It really did take only ten minutes—ten long, miserable minutes—but once they were over, he'd feel liberated at last.
The wheels slammed into the frost-littered runway, jolting Eric out of his thoughts. The aircraft skidded, groaning as the brakes fought against the slick surface. When the plane finally screeched to a halt, Eric exhaled slowly, unclenching his fists. His fingers ached from how tightly and involuntarily he'd been gripping the seatbelts.
Though he struggled for a moment to feel and control his fingers, he eventually succeeded.
A hiss filled the cabin as the doors opened, and a blast of freezing air surged inside. The cold punched through Eric's layers like they were paper, stealing his breath. He yanked his parka tighter and slung his duffel bag over his shoulder before stepping down onto the frozen tarmac. The wind howled around him, cutting through his gear with cruel efficiency.
A figure approached through the swirling snow, bundled in layers of Arctic gear. The man's face was barely visible beneath his fur-lined hood, but his posture radiated authority. He stopped a few feet away, his breath materializing, curling, twisting in the frigid air before slowly disappearing.
"Sergeant Dunn?" The voice was steady, firm.
Eric squared his shoulders. "Yes, sir."
The man pushed back his hood, revealing a withered face with sharp, calculating blue eyes.
"Lieutenant Harper. Welcome to Omega."
Eric saluted, and Harper returned the gesture. Without another word, Harper turned and started walking.
"Follow me. I'll give you the rundown on the way."
"Yes, sir."
Senior Lieutenant Jon Harper was 34 years old. He was a man with clean features, without a single scar—on his face, at least. His short, dirty blond hair and square jaw gave him a stronger military aura. He stood at a similar height to Eric, both around 6'1''. The camo uniforms they wore at the base were designed for cold, snowy regions—white with slight shades of blue and light gray outlines.
They were also followed by the plane personnel, bringing the periodic supplies and rations for the base.
Now that the group of plane personnel had gone their separate path to deliver the supplies, Eric finally spoke as they came closer to the main research building.
"Sir," Eric said.
"Hm?" Harper hummed back without averting his gaze or slowing his stride.
"May I ask about the current situation in the base?" Eric finally voiced the questions that had been on his mind. He could only ask his direct superior, as his orders and briefing about the base and the mission had been rather... vague.
Now was his chance to find out what kind of situation he had been brought into.
Harper's jaw tightened. "You'll get the full briefing later, but let's just say the base has been… experiencing anomalies."
But that wasn't the answer Eric had expected—or wanted.
'Anomalies?' The word echoed silently in his mind. He knew some things about this mission seemed questionable, but he hadn't expected to hear that.
Eric didn't ask further, and Harper didn't elaborate.